


The Blessing

by Mews1945



Category: Lord of the Rings (2001 2002 2003)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-09-04
Updated: 2005-09-04
Packaged: 2017-10-08 04:13:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/72575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mews1945/pseuds/Mews1945
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A wounded soldier of Gondor meets the Ring-bearer and Samwise.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Blessing

I am one of the fortunate, or so the healers tell me, and I trust they are right. I still have all my limbs and my sight, and my wounds will heal. There is pain, a good deal of it, but I am able to walk unaided, and I have one good arm with which I am able to help those more grievously hurt than I.

Here at Cormallen, there are tents to shield us from heat of sun and chill of rain, and there are pallets to lie on, and blankets. New supplies of food and medicines are arriving each day, along with more healers and their helpers, and more will come, they tell us, but in the meanwhile, there are too many wounded and not enough healers, and so some of us less sorely hurt have volunteered to help where we can. It is better than lying and contemplating one's own pain,.

The nights have been very long and dark, and filled with the moans and cries of those in great pain, and with the voices of those who seek to bring them comfort and aid. I am a soldier, and I have no skills as healer or comforter, but I do what I can to aid those who are skilled in such.

It is morning now, and the darkness has faded, so that the tent flaps have been pulled right back, to open it up to the sky and the fresh breeze from off the river. I limp behind the healer, Ailis, and carry her pouch of medicines, while a young apprentice healer carries the bundle of bandages she needs to do her work.

I wondered at first why they had brought women here, to this encampment, where they must endure things I thought women too weak to endure. But I have learned in the past days that I know little of women and their strengths. It is a wonder to me that Ailis can bear the sight of mangled flesh and seeping wounds, nor yet the smells that accompany such. Yet, she does not wince nor turn away, nor does she take notice of the curses of those she seeks to aid, nor their moans of pain when she must remove bandages stiff with blood and humors, and wash out the pus and blood from those wounds.

I am a soldier, as I said, and I have strength. I am brave, I know, because I stood and fought and did not flee when the orcs surged over us like a stinking wave on the plain of battle before the Black Gates of Mordor. I will fight any enemy, yes, and die, if I must, in defense of all I hold dear. But I cannot watch as Ailis tends those wounds, and I try to close my ears to the groans and entreaties of the wounded.

Still, I must do what I can to help, and so I have stayed with her this morning, standing ready to hand her those things she needs in her work, and she has treated many wounds and comforted many men with her touch and her voice, and that is another thing that I have learned about women. Ailis and the other women who have come here touch those who curse them and resist their aid, and under those touches, the men grow quieter. The women speak, most of them, with low voices and softness, but they are firm and the men listen and obey them, save for those few who have been driven mad by pain and the horror of the battle, and who must be restrained by strong men to have their wounds treated.

We have come at last to the final soldier in her care, a young man of Gondor, who has a deep wound in his side from an orc spear. He is very brave, this one, and he suffers the soaking off of his soiled bandage, the washing and salving of the wound and the bandaging of his hurt in near silence. I cannot but admire his strength, and yet I wonder if it would not ease his pain, even a bit, if he would let himself cry out.

Ailis is nearly finished, when we are all surprised by the entry into the tent of the one they call Aragorn, the one they say is the rightful King of Gondor. I recognize him, as all do, because he led us to battle, and I heard him speak, when our hearts nearly failed us in fear. His voice was like the call of a battle horn across the plain, and it moved us all, and brought us together to fight for all we loved. In that moment, when he rode before us and called to us Men of the West to stand, my heart belonged to this Man, and that has not changed. He has been my King since that moment.

I kneel at once, and bow to him, and the healer and her apprentice follow my lead. He speaks to us in a soft, but commanding voice, bidding us to rise. It is somewhat difficult for me to stand, as I have a wound to my leg, as well as the one to my arm. To my surprise, his companion, the golden creature who accompanies the King, aids me with a hand beneath my arm, and his strength is such that I am lifted almost effortlessly to my feet. It is the Elf, the King's friend, and I am nearly overcome with the awe to be given aid by such as he.

I stammer my thanks, and the Elf looks at me gravely, with eyes so still and ageless that it half-frightens me, and says, "No thanks are necessary, friend."

The King smiles upon us and moves aside and we see that there are other companions behind him and the Elf. At first I think they are children, but then I realize they are the Ring-bearers. All know of these two, and how they went, alone and unarmed, into Mordor to face the Dark Lord's greatest Power at its source, and how they brought about the Enemy's downfall with the destruction of his Ring.

I am but a soldier and I know little of these great and mysterious matters, but I am half disappointed at what I see when I look at this Frodo and this Samwise, called "The Brave" by many. They are hailed as heroes and deliverers by the greatest warriors I have ever seen, including this Man that I now call my King, and so I must believe, but I wonder how it can be possible.

They are so small, hardly taller than a lad of twelve summers, and they wear simple clothing, not armor or fine robes. Their hair is long and curling on their heads and also on their oddly large feet, which are bare of shoes or boots. They are so thin and trembling that one who did not know better would take them for starving children. The Elf stands back, watching, his face serene, but I see that his concern is for the halflings. I think that he is there to protect them, and to care for them, should they require it.

The King takes the hand of the smaller halfling and leads him forward. The halfling's eyes are as blue as the flowers that once grew in my mother's little garden and seem to fill up half his small face, and his expression is very grave as the King conducts him to the place where the young soldier lies, shivering from the fight to endure his pain in silence, his face drawn by suffering.

"This is Frodo," the King says to the soldier, kneeling on one knee by the pallet, and to see him thus is to feel only more respect for him, that he is willing to take so humble a posture in order to speak to one of his men. He smiles as the little halfling kneels with him. The other, who I now know is Samwise, comes closer also. "He is the Ring-bearer, and he wished to meet some of the soldiers who fought at the last battle before the Black Gates of Mordor. He has something he wishes to say to you."

Frodo's dark curls fall into his face as he leans forward and I see the bandaging that covers most of his left hand. All know of this wound he bears, and I can only wonder how one so small could endure such pain and survive at all, and yet, here he is. I can see the scars of many cuts and burns on his feet when he kneels, and there are others on his face and his hands, but he does not wince or gasp, though it must hurt him, and he smiles a smile of such tenderness that it moves my own heart, and I must stand very straight and struggle to control the surprising tears that come to my eyes.

"What is your name, lad?" the Ring-bearer asks.

The soldier whispers, "Burvan my lord." His face changes when the Ring-bearer lays his hand on his arm, and he seems caught and held by the gaze of those wide eyes. It is clear that he has, for a moment, forgotten himself and his pain.

"Boromir told us all," the Ring-bearer says. "Of how the soldiers of Gondor fought for so long to hold the forces of darkness at bay, and how they fought to protect and keep safe the lands of Middle Earth. We know of your sacrifices and we wish to say thank you, to you, and all the others." He smiles again, a sad smile. "I know how small a thing it is, but it is all that I have to offer. Please accept it, and know that my people will know of the courage and sacrifices of the men and women of Gondor."

Burvan is plainly as surprised as all of us by this thanks from one who is, to us, a creature out of legend. He stammers a few words I cannot hear, and the Ring-bearer nods. He leans forward and kisses the young soldier's forehead, and not one of us moves or breathes, because it seems a hallowed moment, although I cannot say why it should seem so. It is only a young soldier of Gondor, and a simple gesture from the halfling, but it seems very much that a blessing has been tendered and received.

The Ring-bearer stands, but stumbles a bit, clearly weak, and Samwise is quick to take his arm and say, "Lean on me, Mr. Frodo, now you know you're not nearly well yet."

"I am fine, Sam," Frodo answers, smiling at him with love in his face. He looks up at the King. "May we speak to a few more of the men? I know that we cannot reach all of them today, but perhaps just another one or two?"

"All right, Frodo," the King says, with such deep affection in his voice that it is apparent to all how much he loves this small being. They move slowly on to the next pallet, and I follow, unable to bring myself to leave them handing the medicine pouch to the apprentice. He takes it and follows me as well, as Ailis does the same, all of us drawn, for some reason, to these halflings. Even the Elf comes closer, watching Frodo's face.

It is very odd, I think. One would almost think the halflings were like men, but they are not. They are more like women, in the way they speak and their willingness to touch those to whom they are speaking. The touches clearly give the same kind of comfort that the women can give, bringing quiet to the bodies of the men, and it is plain that they also bring ease to the men's minds as well.

But it is also quickly made clear that the halflings are still weak and need much time and care to recover their strength, and they agree when the King tells them that they must go back to their own beds and rest. I follow them to the opening of the tent, where Ailis is bowing to the King and to the Ring-bearers, and thanking them for coming to speak to the wounded. Frodo takes her hand and bows to her in turn and asks permission to return. She murmurs that she would be honored, and the men would be pleased.

As I stand there, Frodo notices me, and I think he has been aware of me all the time, even though he said nothing. It is the way he looks at me, with wisdom and sympathy in his eyes, and before I know it, he has come a step nearer and taken my hand in both of his, the wounded hand and the whole one, and they are so small, those hands, but there is strength in them as well. There is strength also in the steady gaze of those childlike eyes that hold me as though in a spell, and I feel my knees go weak and I kneel down that I might face him directly.

"What is your name, my friend?" he asks.

"Loefel, my Lord," I answer.

"You took two wounds in the battle?"

"They were not bad, my Lord."

"I am glad to hear it." He lays his hand on my shoulder, and I begin to understand why the men all quieted under his touch. It is very light, very gentle, and it is comforting because I know that he understands the pain I have felt. He has felt the same kind of pain, and overcome it, and I see that there is great strength in this frail being, although it is not of the kind I have always thought of as strength. It is different, but no less than my own, and I am humbled by it.

"Thank you, Loefel," he says. "For all the sacrifices you made for the peoples of Middle Earth. I am grateful."

"We are all grateful to you as well, my Lord," I answer. "To you, and to Samwise also."

Samwise blushes at this, but Frodo only nods and returns my smile. "We have all done what we could," he says.

He leans and I shut my eyes and feel him brush a kiss on my brow. I accept it, as others have done, as the blessing it is, and I feel honored by that gesture from this greatest of the heroes of Middle Earth.

End


End file.
